


I've got miles of regrets and confusing friends

by finrar



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Chronic Forgiving, Dream is in Prison, Gen, Inspired by a Cavetown Song, M/M, Self-Doubt, Song: Meteor Shower (Cavetown), and just dream’s crimes in general, george is making sense of things, implied dnf, mentions of Tommy’s death, mentions of manipulation, this can be read without it though, this is kind of just a vent of sorts, yet probably still ooc
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-03-13
Updated: 2021-03-13
Packaged: 2021-03-20 23:48:55
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,087
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/30012864
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/finrar/pseuds/finrar
Summary: George tried to make sense of some of his conflicting thoughts and emotions after Dream had been thrown in prison, yet that lead George to reminiscing on how things used to be.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF), GeorgeNotFound & Sapnap (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 2





	I've got miles of regrets and confusing friends

**Author's Note:**

> Heads up,  
> Mentions of Tommy’s death, Dream’s manipulation, and just Dream’s crimes in general.
> 
> I apologize if this is messy, as this is my first fic for this fandom. This was also heavily inspired by the song “Meteor Shower” by Cavetown!

He doesn’t quite know when the skies turned grey or dull. From what he could remember, at least the sky used to be blue. 

They used to be vibrant. He used to love watching the clouds float by. He hadn’t done that in a while.

He could remember lying on the grass, his back digging into the ground in a way that would have been uncomfortable if not for the sheer serenity of everything. He had his nose pointed to the sky, not in contempt or longing- a position he finds himself in rather often now- but rather, childish joy. Tracing the figures of the clouds in the sky, laughing at every one of his friend’s stupid remarks. 

But the sky hadn’t been blue in a while, and the only clouds he could see now were those of dirt and ash. 

He inhaled, the scent of ruin and destruction sticking to his tongue. Everything was muddy and dull, and he still couldn’t even figure out when everything had changed. All he knew was that the air was stale, and everything smelled of burnt rubber and gunpowder.

There was hardly anywhere that hadn’t been touched by the cool hands of death or the raging fury of fire at some point. It had started to show itself long ago, yet now? Ruins were scattered across the vast expanse of dirt, everything seemingly ravaged by war.

The others, he knew, were trying their best to stay optimistic about the situation. The rise and fall of nations once, twice, thrice over. Even now, they were developing nations and factions- or, in a very specific case, the complete lack of one- despite everything. He could see their hurt and pain in their eyes, and yet, they still tried.

He hadn’t really been able to say that for a long time.

He knew that many would argue the opposite of him, that he was the most optimistic given the situation, that he was handling everything the best. He did come off as rather uncaring about the situation, seemingly handling his emotions the best out of everyone. He found that sentiment amusing, in the dry, depressing sort of way when you know something is false.

In truth, he wasn’t handling everything well at all. His unwavering loyalty during the first war was recognized by all who had sided with Dream, but the keyword there was first.

If it had just been one battle, one skirmish, it would’ve been fine. But the fighting kept going, and everything was changing too quickly for him to keep up. He’d never be one to admit he was scared of change, but he knew he was.

After all, even if change brings about new things, it also takes away the old with it. And George didn’t want to think about how much that hurt.

He _really_ didn’t want to.

But when, for once, you can’t sleep and all you can do is lie on the scorched dirt and think, there wasn’t much else he could do.

“Just say you hate me”, he mumbled quietly to the evening sky. Any stars that should’ve been there were covered by the drifting smoke from a fire past lit. It made him feel guilty somehow.

That had been an interesting day. He was upset to say the least, though he knew that line, _that utterance_ ,was unnecessary. And yet, he didn’t know if Dream had ever ‘loved’ him. He had no way to know, hell knows Dream had lied before, and despite always saying the George was his motivation for everything, judging by his other tendencies, George couldn’t quite tell if he was only saying that to have some sort of control over him.

He needed to stop thinking about Dream, he always ended up spiraling into a depression of ‘why’s’ and ‘what-if’s’. It wasn’t healthy, he knew. And yet his mind won’t let him rest. He hadn’t been able to sleep since he found out his best friend was rotting in prison. Since he found out the extent of what he had done, and the atrocities he had committed in _George’s name._

He spared a hoarse laugh followed by a series of coughs. It was almost ironic how things had changed. Back before everything Dream had done came out, George would find himself wrapped in his own slumber far more often than not. He guess it could have been a coping mechanism. He knew something was up with Dream, he just really didn’t want to acknowledge it. He had seen the red flags, and he had felt the sharp pang of betrayal with he was dethroned, though that didn’t last long, yet as Dream had started to slip away, started to get more erratic and scheming, George didn’t know how to handle it. He ran away from his problems.

He felt a sense of comfort within his own dreams that he hadn’t felt since before the first war. If he just slept all day, then he wouldn’t be hurt, because his dreams were pleasant. 

He slept through most of the wars. Through the election. He slept through his closest friend needing him most.

And he was torn. He couldn’t tell whether he should be angry at Dream for literally tormenting a child, and trying justify it by using George’s own name, and he couldn’t tell if he should be angry at himself. He ran away from his problems. Dream hadn’t been well for a long time, and that scared George. He had left his friend alone during his darkest hours due to his own pathetic fear of change, and then had the gall to be angry at his friend? He should’ve made sure Dream got the help he had been so desperately calling for. He should have at least been there for him, instead of sleeping through his problems.

And yet now, he can’t even do that. He laid awake at night dreading the thought that a child’s literal death was on his hands now. Even if said child had been resurrected, that didn’t lesson the weight of the guilt he felt. If only he had tried to talk Dream down more. Maybe things could have been like they used to be. Back when things were nice.

_“I’d sell my own bones for sapphire stones-“ Dream had started._

_“Because blue’s my favourite colour?” George laughed at the absurdity of the situation, not missing the way Dream had smiled at his response- or, his interruption at least. “Did you seriously just quote a Cavetown song, Dream?”_

_George watched as Dream fumbled with the small daisy he had been twirling in his hands for the past who knew how long. His head dipped forward with a gentle wheeze, hair tumbling out from underneath his supposedly green hoodie._

_“Possibly.” The response was clipped, but still light-hearted, as Dream now turned, sitting away from George. He looked up, contemplating what to say. “The sky looks nice tonight.”_

_“It does.” George commented with finality, settling for looking up at the stars, obscured by the light clouds scattered across the sky._

_“...To be fair, you kind of quoted it too.”_

_“Whatever you say, Dream.”_

George missed the mindless banter they had used to share. He still doesn’t quite know what had happened. Where did he go wrong? 

And why didn’t George do anything about it?

Dream had a heart, George knew. Perhaps he had lost it somewhere along the way? Even during the first war, Dream was still Dream. That’s when the red flags started showing up, but Dream was still himself.

Or maybe George was blinded by the fact that Dream supposedly did everything for him. He was completely oblivious to the greater half of what had happened until just recently.

But George knew Dream hadn’t always been cold. He was sure some of the others might still remember back when things were good. Back before Dream proclaimed himself a god. 

And, perhaps worst of all, George was fairly sure he actually knew why Dream was doing all of this. He was scared of change too. The first cracks started appearing when the first faction split into two. While Dream didn’t necessarily handle the situation the best, George could figure that it would be a terrible feeling to go from the general peacekeeper of conflicts to suddenly being painted as a villain in the eyes of rebellion. In the eyes of the people who had sought his help before. 

And then, with each new conflict, Dream cracked a little more. While George was uncertain as to when Dream had cracked beyond repair, he knew seeing Wilbur after his exile probably didn’t help. Wilbur, the brave general who lead the first faction to break off. Wilbur, the charismatic speaker that twisted the words of a peacekeeper into that of a villain, forcing him to play the part. Wilbur, the benevolent candidate, grasping for any sort of approval from his cabinet, quickly loosing all gain on L’manburg. And Wilbur, the spiraling terrorist that decided if he couldn’t have L’manburg, then no one could. It’s funny, for as much as people hated Wilbur, he was still readily forgiven, despite following the exact same spiral as Dream. The only difference, George reasoned, was that Dream didn’t die after his first acts of hysteria. George knew Dream had seen himself in Wilbur, and it no doubt spurred Dream’s behavior, because if Wilbur could get way with it, why couldn’t Dream? And if Dream could get away with it, how far could he push that boundary?

George knew he was going to think himself sick. Hating, forgiving and blaming himself for Dream was an exhausting cycle. Constantly justifying the things he did, even though the idea of Dream doing this for him left the bitter, repugnant taste of iron in his mouth.

George couldn’t think clearly. He was running himself in circles like a hamster in a cage. He knew he should probably talk to someone, but he knew that, if he went to the wrong person, expressing any amount of forgiveness for Dream might leave him dead.

George was tired. He wanted to sleep, but he couldn’t. He couldn’t stop thinking. Despite everything Dream has done, he can’t help but forgive him. Hell, he’s already tried to break him out once, leaving him on thin ice with Sam, despite the latter’s insistence on offering George a place to stay. Sam probably wouldn’t appreciate his presence though, and George doubted that Sam wanted to see anyone. 

Everyone was hurting. There was no one who was spared, no one got away with injuries, and George knew that. He just wished he knew how to go about processing his.

George sighed as he heard footsteps approach. The footsteps stopped not far from George, who felt the heat radiating off the individual. He disregarded the sensation, standing up far too quickly causing momentary dizziness. He knew it was Sapnap. That wasn’t hard to guess. Why Sapnap was there was another question entirely.

“I could literally hear you thinking from all the way back there’” Sapnap vaguely gestured behind him with his thumb, “and wanted to make sure you were doing okay.”

George regarded him skeptically, remembering Sapnap’s words of advice against Dream.

Sapnap continued, “look, I know we fight a lot, but it hurts to see you like this, so just spill it. We’re going to talk all about those feelings.”

“Do you even know how cheesy you sound right now?” George offered a weak half-smile, Sapnap seeming to react positively to George’s mood lifting somewhat.

“If it’s about Dream, which I am going to assume it is, I could see if Sam could allow Dream one last visitor. I’d probably have to go with you to ensure you don’t break anything, but,” Sapnap gestured with his hands wildly, “I’m sure I could work something out.”

George eyes him warily again, carefully choosing his next words. “I’d be more worried about you killing him before I could even say hello to him.”

“I can set our differences aside just this once, man. I know this is eating at you, and closure for whatever in the world happened with you two would probably be great for you both.”

George paused, never being one for vulnerability, but still chose to thank Sapnap genuinely, just for Sapnap to remind him that he still needs Sam’s permission.

It’ll be okay, George thought. Soon the smoke will clear, and the skies will be blue again.

_Just like they used to be._

**Author's Note:**

> I left this open for another chapter if I ever actually get around to writing it, but if I don’t, it should also work as a standalone oneshot.


End file.
